


A Kiss or Ten

by ORiley42



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Fluff and Humor, M/M, kisses (first and otherwise), very little period typical homophobia, we're here for a good time not a historically accurate time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28621326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ORiley42/pseuds/ORiley42
Summary: A series of extremely loosely connected episode tags and canon-divergences where—that’s right, you guessed it—we get some kisses.
Relationships: "Trapper" John McIntyre/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 20
Kudos: 53





	A Kiss or Ten

**Author's Note:**

> I’m pretty far into the BJ years in my re-watch, but I wanted to post these Piercintyre snippets I scribbled several seasons ago! Hope y’all enjoy the banter and smooches <3

**_Sticky Wicket 2: A Stickier Wicket_ **

A dance of air as the door opens, then closes delicately. Soft steps. Lips brush his.

“I told you to leave me alone, Trapper!” Hawkeye quipped, not removing his hat from over his eyes. He idly wondered who it actually was—none of the telltale jasmine perfume of Nurse Cutler nor the rosewater-and-soap of Mitchell. Maybe Baker?

“How’d you know it was me?” came a confused but unmistakably masculine voice above him.

The hat flew so fast it probably thought it had grown wings.

“Uh…” Hawkeye blinked up at his best friend. His father had always said his smart mouth would get him into trouble. Finally, he actually _cared_ about the trouble.

“Seriously,” Trapper put his hands on his hips, pressing the question, “I was being very sneaky!”

Hawkeye’s truthful response, ‘I didn’t know it was you, it was a joke, and now I’m having some sort of cardiac difficulty, do you know any doctors?’ seemed too awful to share.

After an uncharacteristic beat of silence, Hawkeye’s reply wandered out: “Just…wishful thinking.”

Oh, good, Hawkeye thought, that was _way_ worse.

Trapper seemed inclined to agree. “Smartass. And here I was, thinking you were in need of rescue. But if you’ve got that mouth running at top speed then the rest of you is sure to follow.”

There was Hawkeye’s mouth, causing trouble again. The article in question was still tingling a bit, which wasn’t doing any good for Hawkeye’s constitution. “Yeah, well, the rest of me is grounded so something’s gotta make a run for it.”

Another batch of awkwardness rolled through the tent. Then, Hawkeye realized in a flash of divine inspiration, that he wasn’t the one who should be embarrassed. “Hey! Wait a minute, what’d you kiss me for?”

Trapper shrugged, unconcerned. “Read about it in a book once.”

“If you think that’s what mouth-to-mouth resuscitation looks like, then I’m gonna have to check that your medical license wasn’t written in crayon.”

“Not a medical book, a fairy tale—you know, handsome prince,” Trapper gestured to himself, “kisses the lovely princess back to her senses.” The lack of corresponding gesture in Hawkeye’s direction was resounding.

“Are you calling me a princess?” Hawkeye asked, making sure his eyebrows were as high as he could raise them.

“Not directly.”

“Oh, well, that’s ok, then.” Hawkeye decided to shelve whatever crisis either he or Trapper might be on the verge of experiencing. He was already weathering one emotional calamity at the moment, thank you very much. “If you’re done kissing me then you can leave, I’ve got some moping to do.”

“What if I’m not done kissing you?”

“Then hurry it up,” Hawkeye grumbled as he rolled over, trying to bury his face back in his pillow, “so I can get back to my regularly scheduled distress.”

“Can’t you be distressed while I’m kissing you?” Trapper offered, settling himself on the edge of the bed, hip and flank pressed against Hawkeye’s back, “you’re usually a fan of multitasking.”

“Am I? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Guess introspection wasn’t one of those tasks.”

Trapper didn’t kiss him again, and Hawkeye wasn’t disappointed. At least, that’s what he was repeating to himself over and over with such vigor that he almost didn’t catch what Trapper said next.

“I’m not here to tell you what you should or shouldn’t tie yourself in knots over.”

“Good.”

“But you’ve gotta get out of your head, Hawk.” Trapper had a hand over Hawkeye’s ribs, giving him a shake, “I’m worried it’ll damage ya in a way even my magic hands can’t fix.”

“Are you referring to your surgical skills, or are we back to kissing frogs?”

“I definitely didn’t call you a frog.”

“Right, I forgot, I’m a princess. Up my tower of crazy, in need of rescue.”

“Is it crazy? Or just good old-fashioned guilt?”

“What’ve I got to feel guilty about?”

“Exactly.”

Hawkeye relinquished the charade of sleep so that he could give Trapper the glare he deserved. “Reverse psychology is below you.”

“Very little is below me,” Trapper countered, “except willing, friendly nurses. And, currently, you.”

“I can’t believe you’d take advantage of me in my weakened condition.”

“Then you don’t know me that well.”

“I know you so well, I could write a book about you. _The_ book. Citations and all, and I’d probably get a six-figure advance from the publisher if I could develop that film we took of ourselves reenacting _Macbeth_ in our skivvies.”

Trapper paused. “What part of _Macbeth_ involves underwear?”

“The way we played it? Most of the first act.”

“Oh, Hawk,” Trapper made a show of sighing but there was something uncomfortably real and not-at-all-glib beneath the theatrics. “You really bring out the worst in me.”

“Thanks. This pep talk is going really well.”

“Right. What I’m _trying_ to say is, the worst me is one of the favorite me’s I’ve ever known.”

Hawkeye attempted to untangle that linguistic calculus and immediately gave up. “Sure, that clears things up.”

“You want clear?” Trapper slapped his own thighs like he was gonna get up and do something about it. He didn’t get up, but he sure did do something.

He leaned forward, grabbed Hawkeye by the tousled shirtfront, and reeled him into a smacking kiss. It wasn’t exactly romantic, being as it was largely a gesture to prove a point, but it wasn’t exactly fraternal, either.

Hawkeye blinked, still in shock at the on-going man-handling. “As clarifications go, that was rather opaque.”

“You want a second opinion?”

“Think I’ll just run more tests.” Hawkeye pressed forward to kiss Trapper back, and there was no mistaking this for a joke or an accident or platonic affection or any of the other things Hawkeye generally masked the feelings-he-definitely-didn’t-have with.

**_The Kiss Me-Maybe Game_ **

“You think we’ve gonna live through this?” Trapper jerked his chin towards the double doors, beyond which lay an unexploded shell that had arrived altogether too early for dinner.

Hawkeye shrugged, “Only long enough to die some other way.”

“You’re a great comfort in these trying times.”

“Hey,” Hawkeye tapped Trapper’s shoulder then swung him around by the arm, “for luck.”

Trapper would’ve asked ‘what’s for luck?’ but Hawkeye had already ducked in and kissed him. Trapper blinked and nearly missed it.

“Hey!” Trapper echoed, and Hawkeye tried to pull out of reach.

“No take-backsies,” Hawkeye grinned nervously.

“What I mean, is, that wasn’t _nearly_ enough luck to get us through the dumb stunt we’re about to pull,” Trapper clarified. And before Hawkeye could work out what that meant, he found out—empirically. Trapper threw one arm around Hawkeye’s waist and the other around his shoulders, tipping him down into a long cinematic kiss.

When Hawkeye was back on his feet and no longer having the daylights kissed out of him, he considered, “You know, after that, you should really make an honest woman of me.”

Trapper patted his cheek. “There ain’t enough golden rings in the universe to do that.”

“You’re questioning my femininity?” Hawkeye grabbed their gear bag and heaved it onto his shoulder with a wince.

“Of course not. Just your honesty.”

“Oh, well then, fair enough.”

“Shall we?” Trapper bowed and waved towards the cruddy wooden doors, on the other side of which lay a firecracker big enough to light up a fair bit of the continent.

“Don’t suppose I could convince you to desert.”

“Sure—right after we defuse the bomb,” Trapper promised, and followed Hawkeye out the door.

**_Check-Up_ **

Hawkeye handed Trapper a glass of milk. Trapper glared balefully up at him like he’d just taken possession of a pair of particularly rank socks.

“Drink up, young man, and you just might live to see your next appendectomy.”

“Cheers,” Trapper grumbled, downing half the glass before letting his head fall forward, elbows braced on knees.

Hawkeye watched him sit there for a moment, weighing his words. The scale tipped over as he slumped down next to Trapper.

“You know, I’m a pretty selfish bastard,” he started conversationally.

The air sank under the weight of Trapper’s sigh, in the place where a witty comeback would usually be.

Hawkeye pressed on, “But that’s not news to you. What might be news is that when you said you weren’t going home, they you were staying here, I could’ve kissed you. I _would’ve_ kissed you, in front of Frank and Henry and the US Army and God and the enlisted men.”

“What stopped you?” Trapper asked, not looking up. His tone didn’t give a damn thing away.

“I’m not really sure. Cowardice, probably. Another of my stellar traits.”

“I like that stellar trait. It’s kept you alive.” Trapper finally raised his head, and Hawkeye hadn’t expected those soft brown eyes to be as happy as they seemed. “There’s no one around now,” he added.

“There’s not,” Hawkeye agreed.

Trapper quirked that crooked grin whose forthcoming absence Hawkeye had been mourning-in-advance all day. “So, do I need to go round up half the camp for you to get up the nerve, or would you kiss me without an audience?”

Hawkeye didn’t need to be asked—or rather, teased—twice. He darted forward and pressed a hard kiss to Trapper’s still-grinning mouth before either of them could think better of it.

It didn’t last long, and Hawkeye was letting gravity do its work and swing him away when Trapper tangled a hand in his shirt front, said, “You call that a kiss?” and hauled him back in.

Hawkeye had his hands in Trapper’s hair (now _that_ was a fantasy that’d been simmering on his mental backburner for a while) and Trapper’s hands were everywhere on him and they both knew the flaps were barely closed on the tent and Frank could wander back in at any moment but it just didn’t matter.

“There,” Trapper declared when they were panting against each other’s mouths. “Now, whadaya think of that?”

“Hmm,” Hawkeye tried for cool and distant but couldn’t hack it when he was this fatally lovestruck, “Well, truthfully, you taste rather bovine.”

“Aw, shove off!” Trapper pushed him away, but not actually, because the tussle ended with Hawkeye even more in his lap than he’d been a moment earlier. “Genuinely, I have no idea how you get anywhere with the nurses, tossing out lines like that.”

“I save my best work for you.”

Boots crunched outside and Hawkeye was a good, hetero-spectable two feet away by the time the door swung open with an exhausted creak.

“—and then I said, ‘no, that’s my sister!’” Hawkeye improvised, and Trapper laughed at the tail end of a non-existent joke without missing a beat.

Frank made a grumbling noise and shot them his contractually obliged dirty look, but Hawkeye cared even less than usual—and the usual was literally not at all.

**_Radar Asks For Advice About A Girl (Must Be Tuesday)_ **

“Hey, what’s got your teeny tiny khakis in a twist?” Hawkeye asked as his favorite corporal edged into the Swamp without his tell-tale clipboard.

Radar didn’t even balk at the jibe, too busy twisting his fingers to the breaking point. He began, haltingly, “Well, there’s this girl…”

“A girl, I think I’ve heard of those.”

“Yeah, two legs, two arms, two of other things…” Trapper tapped his chin thoughtfully.

“Could you guys be serious?” Radar begged them, eyes wide behind his glasses.

“Only for short periods, or it might become permanent,” Hawkeye countered. “Seriously, what’s the problem. Did this girl steal your lunch money?”

“No…”

“She take advantage of your virtue?”

“Hey!”

“What, I’m just looking out for you!”

“I haven’t even talked to her, ok?” Radar admitted, and Hawkeye and Trapper shared a knowing look over the top of his head.

“Drink?” Trapper offered, and they knew it was a grave situation when Radar looked like he might say yes.

“No, I just wanted your advice. You’re both, uh, well, you both are good with girls.”

“I think ‘good’ might not be the right word. ‘Effective,’ maybe.”

“Effusive,” Trapper added.

“Repulsive—no wait, that’s not right.”

“Isn’t it?” Trapper grinned as he gnawed on an olive. Hawkeye thought about flipping him the bird but decided to refrain since there was a child present.

“Alright, let’s cut to the chase,” Hawkeye flung back his robe like a cape and flopped down on his cot, “What advice do you want Radar? The field is open.”

“Well, I figure…the first step has gotta be asking her out.”

“Stellar deduction,” Hawkeye agreed.

“Yeah, but how do I do that?”

“Just walk up to her an’ ask if she wants to catch a movie,” Trapper suggested.

Radar squinted at him, waiting for the punchline. “That sounds too easy.”

“It’s not,” Hawkeye assured him, “your stomach will fall out of your mouth long before you get to that point.”

“That’s what I was afraid of!”

“So, plan it out,” Hawkeye clapped his hands like he was trying to call a room to order, “figure out what you’re going to say before you go and foul it up. For example, it can’t hurt to start with a compliment. What do you like best about this girl?”

“Well…there’s her…and then she’s very…and also that…” Radar made a number of enthusiastic hand gestures. Hawkeye covered his own eyes, “Please, Radar, think of my modesty.”

Radar huffed a lonesome sigh, “Rats, Hawkeye, she’s just…the _best_.”

“Not a lot of detail, but from the heart,” Trapper shrugged, “I think you’ve got half your opening line right there.”

“Now the trick is just to say it. To the girl,” Hawkeye clarified.

“Is that an order?” Radar asked weakly.

“Listen, if you’re really that nervous, then practice on me,” Hawkeye crossed his legs and flicked a strand of hair from his eyes, “Just pretend I’m a girl.”

Radar gave him a shocked once over. “Gee, I don’t think I can do that.”

Hawkeye shrugged, “Fine, then pretend I’m a boy.”

“Okay.”

Hawkeye shot Trapper a wink. Trapper barely hid his laugh behind a sip of moonshine.

Radar gathered his courage as he moved to perch on the bed next to Hawkeye. “Would—would you…” A bead of sweat snuck out from beneath his cap, “um, because you’re the movie…go to the best with me?” he finished. Hawkeye sighed as all that courage slipped out of Radar’s hands and shattered on the ground.

“Well, you’ve certainly got a unique style,” Hawkeye noted with great diplomacy, “but I think you’d better learn from the master before we let you out in the field.”

“If you say so,” Trapper cut in, shoving Radar nearly off the end of the bed so he could wedge himself in next to Hawkeye. “Now, watch closely,” he pointed at Radar, then gently laid a hand over Hawkeye’s shoulders.

“Hey there, gorgeous, come here often?”

Hawkeye rolled his eyes. “Is that the best line you have? I got a better offer from the one-eyed guy selling chicken feet down the road.”

Radar hopped up to sit across from them on Trapper’s cot, watching them closely. Hawkeye half expected him to start taking notes.

“Well, I was a little nervous asking out a dame as classy as you,” Trapper faux-admitted, “Just said the first thing that popped into my head.”

“Honesty. I like that in a man. And in whatever you are,” Hawkeye trailed a hand down Trapper’s chest, jingling his dog tags.

“C’mon, sweetheart, let’s get outta this joint. The minefield’s gorgeous at this time of night.”

“There’d have to be heavy artillery involved to get me to leave with you.” Hawkeye indulged in a brief aside for the audience, stage-whispering, “Always prepare for resistance, but don’t let it stop you.”

Trapper got in on the whispering too: “Don’t be afraid to get frisky, either.” He laid his free hand over Hawkeye’s knee.

At full volume, Hawkeye replied, “And don’t be afraid to slap him if he gets fresh.” Trapper removed his hand, quick-like. “Listen, solider,” Hawkeye continued, “this camp’s a hunk-a-dozen, why should I settle for you?”

Trapper considered. “Because you’re the moon to my stars. Because my thoughts are filled with nothing but you. Because I’ll hurl myself onto my own bayonet if you turn me down.” He frowned at Hawkeye’s unmoved profile.

“Batting zero,” Hawkeye confirmed.

“Alright,” Trapper cocked a devious eyebrow, “how about because I have exclusive access to the Colonel’s office and recently acquired two weekend passes to Tokyo?”

“And _that’s_ how you’ll get the girl,” Hawkeye told Radar, throwing both his legs into Trapper’s lap.

“Don’t forget to seal the deal,” Trapper cautioned Radar, hand settling on Hawkeye’s thigh as he tucked him in close. Hawkeye beat him to the punch, closing the last inches between their lips. It was a short, sweet, gin-soaked kiss, broken only by Radar’s scandalized gasp.

To their pleasant surprise, however, Radar’s shock took the form of a whispered, “You really think she’ll let me do _that_?”

“Only one way to find out,” Trapper shrugged, almost upending Hawkeye from his cozy embrace.

“Yeah, now get lost,” Hawkeye jerked his chin towards the door, “this handsome doctor’s gonna give me a free tonsillectomy.”

“Free?” Trapper laughed, “You’re out of your deranged mind. I always charge full price.”

**_Someday I’ll Remember the Name of the Episode with the Intravenous Shower Gin_ **

“Hey, where’d the last of the good stuff go?” Trapper tugged at the thin plastic tubing with a tragic expression.

“Good stuff?” Hawkeye soaped up his chest with a raised eyebrow, “You’ve been sipping a different IV than me.”

“Fine, where’d the last of the bad stuff go?”

“Eh,” Hawkeye shrugged, “There might be a little left…”

Trapper leaned forward, hopeful.

“…on my lips.”

“Ugh!” Trapper tried to splash him but struggled to pull the chain and make the appropriate flapping movement at the same time.

“There’s that coordination all the patients write home about,” Hawkeye noted, watching with great amusement.

Trapper considered taking the high road, but really, the traffic was terrible. Instead, he just sighed and reached over the shoddy wooden divide to reel Hawkeye in by the back of the neck. “I’m getting the last of that shower gin if it kills me.”

“It just might,” Hawkeye surrendered, kissing him as best he could with a wall of potential splinters between them.

“Hmm,” Trapper nibbled at Hawkeye’s jaw before reluctantly pulling away, lest Frank make one of his trademark ill-timed appearances and throw a fit. “Ya know, I think the booze really did taste better on you.”

“I’d say that everything does, but not even my magic mouth can transform the mess tent’s slop into edible foodstuffs.”

“This conversation is starting to get kinda disgusting.”

“Ah, another side effect of my magical muzzle.”

The door banged open, and no one entered. Or rather, no one whose head cleared the tall stalls.

“Hey, Radar,” Trapper greeted him, “I was just wishing you weren’t here.”

“Don’t be rude, Trap, he comes bearing gifts,” Hawkeye admonished, “He does come bearing gifts, right ‘he’?”

“He who?” Radar blinked up at them, hefting a fresh IV bottle that Trapper sure hoped didn’t contain saline.

“Aha!” Hawkeye snatched the medically masquerading alcohol from Radar’s grip and switched it out for their empty.

“Hey, Hawk?”

“Uh huh,” Hawkeye handed off the spare glass to Radar, who pursed his lips and left before Hawkeye could ask for a bedpan of olives.

“Has it occurred to you that we might have a drinking problem?” Trapper inquired, watching Hawkeye sip gratefully.

Hawkeye made a come-hither gesture with his finger that had Trapper thinking distinctly non-boozy thoughts, though he tilted forward to let Hawkeye slip the tube between his lips.

“I thought you said this was genius,” Hawkeye murmured, tickling Trapper’s chin until he sputtered.

“Yeah, well,” Trapper wiped his mouth and ruffled Hawkeye’s wet hair, “genius drinking problems, then.”

“If my problems can get admitted to Harvard, then they don’t count as problems anymore. They’re innovations.”

“I think our livers could do with a little less innovation.”

“Well, you’ll just have to give me something better to do with my mouth then,” Hawkeye declared, the picture of innocence—if that picture was hung in the sleaziest brothel known to man.

Trapper grinned. “It’d be easier to do if these army-regulation showers came in king size.”

“I think we’ll make do.”

**A Full Rich Day**

“Lemme see your finger,” Hawkeye beckoned impatiently.

“Any particular one?”

“The one that Frank nearly chopped off in his excitement to play doctor.”

“He just nicked it. I’ll live.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Hawkeye took the wounded digit and made a great show of inspecting it, to Trapper’s patient amusement.

Trapper nudged him with the toe of his boot. “Well, you gonna kiss it better, or what?”

Hawkeye’s eyes went wide. It was always a little stunning—that much blue, all at once. “Hey, you stole my line,” he pouted, “guess my heart wasn’t enough.”

“Your heart’s all full of booze and fairy tales, it barely made cost on the market.”

“Surprised you sold it at all, in that condition.”

“It’s not so bad. After I went and bought it back, shined it up a little.”

“You know, I think this metaphor’s about run its course,” Hawkeye pointed out.

“Hey! Just when I’m getting poetic, he pumps the brakes,” Trapper complained to an imaginary audience.

“I’m the king of romance, and you know it, you slug,” Hawkeye declared primly as he grabbed the belt of Trapper’s robe with both hands and used it to pull their chests flush. Their noses brushed.

“You know,” Trapper murmured against Hawkeye’s mouth, making no move to pull away, “Frank’s clumsy scalpel didn’t get near my lips.”

“Oh, I’ll get to your finger. And the rest of you. Eventually.”

**_The Best Things Happen While You’re Dancing_ **

“Don’t supposed you’d like to finish this dance?”

Trapper shrugged, the motion seeming excessive in his shoulder-bearing tank top—to be honest, Hawkeye’s head hadn’t stopped spinning since he put it on. “Not really.”

“C’mon,” Hawkeye wheedled, “it’ll set Frank’s teeth on edge. Maybe shatter them completely!”

Trapper pulled his bottom lip into his mouth, chewing it contemplatively. “Alright, I’ll dance, but _not_ for the sake of Frank’s dental work.”

“Oh! You scamp,” Hawkeye grinned, letting Trapper pull him to his feet.

They took a few exaggerated spins around the dancefloor, scooping up appreciative wolf-whistles and friendly laughs. A few jealous blinks and disapproving squints, too, but they tossed those back out with the potato scraps and yesterday’s meatloaf.

Once they’d made the requisite jokes of themselves, they settled into a comfier little two-step, chests pressed together. Hawkeye went for broke and let his nose brush along Trapper’s jawline, settling in for the long haul. It wasn’t really a cheek-to-cheek song, but who was counting?

Well, Frank, of course.

“You, you—” the lipless weasel spluttered, fingers spasming in rage around Margaret’s waist.

“Degenerates?” Hawkeye offered.

“Perverts?” Trapper added, with a saucy eyebrow raise.

Frank glared daggers—or at least, scalpels—at them, “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

“Oh, a mercy,” Hawkeye affected concern, “After all, nothing deserves to be stuck in _your_ mouth—right, Margaret?”

It was Margaret’s turn to splutter indignantly—how nice, a matched set!

“Please, don’t let us interrupt your infidelity,” Hawkeye waved them off, “my old man here still owes me a few more twirls around the dance floor.” Frank and Margaret were too busy collecting their jaws from the dusty ground to mount even a single retort between them.

“Old man?” Trapper almost dumped Hawkeye on the ground with an aggressive and unannounced dip, “Look who’s talking, Ichabod Crane.”

Hawkeye clutched at Trapper’s shoulders until he relented and pulled him back upright, resuming their lazy spin through the bouncing bottoms and shimmying shoulders of their comrades. “You know, I get that that’s supposed to be an insult, but I could really get behind sleeping for a hundred years. Sign me up for the next century-long nap.”

“That does sound like a cherry deal,” Trapper mused, “think I might tuck myself in right beside ya.”

Klinger—clad in stunning red with a sweeping blossom-garnished chapeau casting its own shadow across the dance floor—sent them an elegant, white-gloved wave as Hawkeye laughed into Trapper’s shoulder.

Trapper returned the wave while Hawkeye spotted opportunity. Timing their movements with an art any professional choreographer would’ve been jealous of, Hawkeye waited until they were hidden behind the plume of Klinger’s magnificent hat. Then he kissed Trapper hard, holding nothing back. Trapper kissed him in return, matching passion for passion as he packed months of affection into their stolen seconds, before being sensible for the both of them and breaking it off.

The wave of petals on one side, the piano on the other, the empty doorway to their backs. No witnesses. Well, Father Mulcahy may have seen something from his spot at the keys, but not something he’d ever concern himself with. Concern being reserved for problems. What he glimpsed between the 4077th’s most talented surgeons was no such thing. He smiled to himself, plucking out notes from the worn ivory.

Trapper and Hawkeye let the crowd whisk them around on another circle. And if they ended up behind the shield of their companion’s haute-couture again? Well, no one was going to tell.

**_There’s Something Like a Nurse_ **

“I can’t believe they’re gone.” Trapper’s countenance had bypassed stern and was now approaching haunted. “I mean, how do they think this camp is gonna run without nurses?!”

“Hey, you still got me. I’m a doctor, that’s gotta be worth at least half a nurse.” Hawkeye patted Trapper’s cheek as he sidled past on the way to the still. He did not make it to the still.

Trapper’s hands were around his waist in a second, and Hawkeye started to get an idea of what Doctor McIntyre did to earn his nickname.

“The flaps aren’t even down,” Hawkeye protested, lilting sadly towards the alcohol that was still out of his reach.

“Ah, who’s around to see,” Trapper grumbled somewhere around Hawkeye’s left pectoral.

“Men do have eyes,” Hawkeye pointed out, one hand sneaking of its own volition into Trapper’s hair (traitorous appendage!), “It’s the nurses that got sent away, not Frank! As addled as you may be, even you can’t mistake Frank for helpful medical personnel.”

“You have a point,” Trapper admitted. His voice was still muffled, as he hadn’t yet stopped burying his face in between the folds of Hawkeye’s robe.

“Hey, uh, sirs?”

Whoops.

“What do you want Radar?” Trapper asked, peering around Hawkeye’s middle. Shame was not, apparently, in his vocabulary.

Hawkeye wasn’t familiar with the word either, but he figured the petite corporal deserved some sort of explanation for walking in on two senior officers canoodling (for the sake of out-doing Frank & Margaret’s last excuse, if nothing else.)

“He’s just doing a quick chest inspection,” Hawkeye shot Radar a firm nod, throwing in a proud chin-jut to boot, “You can’t be too careful, I heard those nurses ran off with all kinds of hearts.”

Radar seemed inclined to accept this explanation, until his nose wrinkled—a sure sign of thought. “Hey, wait a minute…” he pointed his pen at Hawkeye, “I thought you were the expert in chest stuff? I’m sure of it!”

“Hey, I think he’s right,” Hawkeye laughed down at Trapper before tugging him to his feet and flopping down in his vacated seat, “ _I_ should be listening to _your_ heart.” He wrapped his arms around Trapper’s middle and pretended to listen carefully. “Yep, there’s definitely something in here! Possibly a raccoon.”

“Sir!” It was amazing, even Radar’s voice was blushing. “I’m no doctor, but I don’t think that’s the sir’s heart.”

“I have to agree,” Trapper patted Hawkeye’s hand, which had somehow wandered south of the border (again, traitorous hand!).

“Was there a reason you interrupted our very important medical check-up?” Hawkeye decided to ask, rather than debate the point.

“Oh, yes, Major Burns, sir, he wants your help organizing shifts to man the foxholes.”

“ _Man_ the foxholes?” Hawkeye repeated, settling his index fingers more comfortably in Trapper’s belt loops, “Surely, he has foxes for that kind of work.”

“So, go tell him to round up some foxes,” Trapper agreed, “and once he’s got ‘em we’ll help teach ‘em how to march in nice little straight lines.”

“Uh, yes sir.” Radar scooted towards the door, wearing the beleaguered look that meant he knew he was the conveyor of nonsense but could do little about it. “Oh wait, if you’re doing chest inspections, who’s going to check on Major Burns’ heart?”

Hawkeye and Trapper exchanged a look. So many possible digs to take, which one to choose?

And perhaps Radar’s ESP was growing in strength, because just as Trapper started to say, “I think his wife traded—” and Hawkeye began, “Margaret keeps it in her—”, Radar waved his clipboard and said, “I’ll let you two figure that out.”

The door rattled shut after him as Hawkeye and Trapper broke down laughing, Trapper’s cot creaking under their merry weight.

**_Aid Station_ **

“They’re coming back!” Radar shouted through the flaps in the Swamp. Trapper leapt to his feet—in a very cool, collected way, of course. The over-excited corporal burst through the door, “they’ll be here any minute!”

“Great news, Radar,” Trapper said calmly, jamming a cigar in the corner of his mouth but not lighting it. He turned towards the still, pouring two measures of liquid-pretending-to-be-gin to hide the fact that his hands were shaking. This wasn’t an excellent trick, as half the alcohol sloshed over the glass rim.

“Oh!” Radar froze, head tilting just a few degrees. Trapper smiled, turning away again so that no one could see. For the first time in about thirty hours, he breathed deep and easy.

“Jeep!” Radar took off without another syllable. Frank, who’d just been coming back into the tent, took off after him following a brief pause wherein his tiny brain pieced together the evidence and realized his favorite adulteress had returned.

Trapper sat slowly down on one of the many uncomfortable seats the tent had to offer, his back to the entrance. He laid out a hand of solitaire and began to play automatically. If he’d actually been paying attention to the cards, he’d have noticed he was laying them down without any regard for the rules.

Some silence passed, and then happy shouting burst to life throughout the compound. He didn’t really hear any of it until a familiar set of boot-falls—exhaustion heavy in every tread—came crunching through the door.

“Hey,” Hawkeye greeted him, punctuated with the thump of his bag hitting the cot, “anything interesting happen while I was gone?”

“Interesting things wouldn’t dare happen without you,” Trapper replied, not looking up. He gave it another minute before abandoning the cards, standing up and spinning around.

Hawkeye looked tired, but not like hell. Worse than a weekend in Tokyo, better than a week in OR.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore everything,” Hawkeye quipped, grinning at him. “Well? Are you gonna tell me how bereft you were without me?”

“Bereft? I forgot you were gone. Thought you’d just taken a vacation to the latrine.”

“Oh, well, I am apt to do that,” Hawkeye agreed peaceably, eyes dancing in a way that meant Trapper was either going to wake up with shaving cream in his boots or with a hundred and forty-five pounds of wiry doctor in his arms.

He decided he preferred the latter option. Slipping behind Hawkeye, he wrapped his arms around his middle and buried his face in his neck. He still smelled of smoke and ash and blood from bodies that weren’t long for this world.

“Of course, I missed you,” Trapper admitted, “Damn good thing we didn’t have any casualties, they’d have all left looking like Frankenstein’s kid brother, my head as scattered as it was.”

Hawkeye didn’t say anything, which was his way of saying everything. He leaned back into Trapper’s just-this-side-of-desperate embrace, one hand covering Trapper’s arm around his waist, the other sliding against Trapper’s cheek and up into his hair.

“Glad you’re in one piece,” Trapper added, giving him another squeeze for good measure.

“I’m pretty pleased about that too,” Hawkeye agreed. “You know, it was cold up there.”

“Mmhmm.”

“You’re so warm.”

“That’s the idea.”

“I think my lips are the coldest part of me,” Hawkeye noted, a study in offhandedness.

“Oh, really? Well, I’d better check that out.”

“Yeah, it could be a medical problem.”

“Good thing I’m pretending to be a doctor then,” Trapper agreed, leaning over Hawkeye’s shoulder to steal an off target kiss.

“Mmm,” Hawkeye hummed against his mouth, “I think some other parts of me could do with warming up, too.”

“Then you’d better hope Frank gets stuck in Margaret’s garter belt.”

“It’s my nightly prayer.”

Trapper had been praying earlier, for real, but Hawkeye didn’t need to know that. Or rather, Trapper didn’t need to tell him with words—couldn’t tell him. He hoped Hawk knew anyway.

Hawkeye kissed him breathless—which was easy considering how hard breathing had been lately—and Trapper figured maybe he did know. Maybe he did understand.

**_Mad Dogs and Servicemen and Magazine Mischief_ **

“Have you seen my copy of _Sunbather’s Annual_?”

“Nope,” Trapper pulled a pen cap off with his teeth, squinting in concentration.

Hawkeye shuffled over to sink down beside him. “What’re you reading?”

“ _Ladies Home Journal_ ,” Trapper replied without glancing up, “I’m taking a test to see if I’m an attentive wife.”

“If you were an attentive wife you’d know where my magazine went.”

“If I were an attentive wife—which I am—I wouldn’t let you keep smut like that under our roof.”

“We don’t have a roof,” Hawkeye pointed out.

“Hmm. Maybe that’s why I abide the smut, despite my attentiveness.”

“You _love_ the smut, you are highly attentive _of_ the smut, which is why I’m accusing you of theft, darling.”

Trapper spared a single glance upward at that. “Darling, your sweet words will not spare you a punch in the nose for false accusations.”

“You’d never punch me in the face, that’s where I keep my smarminess.”

“I do love the smarminess, along with the smut,” Trapper agreed. “Now, be helpful, dearest, and tell me: do I keep our home in quality order, such that you may rest comfortably upon returning to our abode after a long day at work?” He held the pen inquisitively over the magazine.

“Trapper, I think if you saw a dustpan your first instinct would be to perform exploratory surgery.”

Trapper scratched in a box triumphantly, “I’ll take that as a yes. Next, how about our sex life, do you think I’ve executed my wifely duties with pomp and vigor?”

“Well, on that count, I cannot complain. Who needs a boy who cooks, when he can do the things you do?” Hawkeye’s dreamy smile turned suspicious and he made a grab for the magazine. “Wait a minute. There is no way the good women of _Ladies Home Journal_ asked such a baldly lascivious question—!”

“I take the fifth!” Trapper held the magazine behind his head, forcing Hawkeye to climb on top of him in an attempt to reach it and prove his point. This was a pleasing state of affairs, all things considered, and it didn’t take very long before the magazine was forgotten.

Hawkeye only gave up searching Trapper’s mouth for answers when the door to the Swamp banged open.

“What is the meaning of this?” Frank glowered down at them, hands on hips like a schoolmarm.

“I don’t like to sully my relationships with meaning,” Hawkeye retorted.

“You’re a grown man, Frank, you need me to draw you a diagram?” Trapper raised his eyebrows, daring Frank to ask for more detail. Frank did not ask.

“Hey, draw _me_ a diagram,” Hawkeye suddenly returned his attention to Trapper (not that it had ever really been on their tent’s bipedal rodent problem).

“What?”

“To replace the lost-but-not-forgotten sunbathing-persons-in-technicolor extraordinaire. We should undertake some life drawing, ourselves.”

Trapper gave this suggestion more genuine consideration than it probably deserved. “Who would be our model? Speaking for myself, I still need the training wheels on my pencil.”

“Agreed,” Hawkeye nodded fervently, “I suppose the nurses wouldn’t let us set up shop in their shower.”

“The paper would get all wet, anyway,” Frank contributed, making them all blink in surprise, including him. “I forgot something in….my last patient,” he announced, fleeing the tent.

“How strange, that was almost civil,” Hawkeye watched the retreating doctor’s back.

“I guess the idea of naked people preserved for posterity really can bring together all sorts.”

“Hey, there’s the title of our artistic coup d'état!” Hawkeye leaped to his feet, throwing his arms out grand and wide, “Posteriors for Posterity!”

“You’re off your nut,” Trapper concluded, “but I’m with ya anyway.”

“Good, because I think I found my first victim, er, portrait subject…” Hawkeye trailed off, holding both thumbs and index fingers up in a rectangle, pinching one eye shut as he looked down at Trapper through the makeshift window.

“Oh, no!” Trapper rolled off the cot and onto his feet, “I’m not taking my clothes off for your sinful purposes!”

“What are you talking about, you take your clothes off for my sinful purposes on a daily, nay, hourly basis!”

“Well,” Trapper hedged, trying to hide behind the still and having little success, “It’s just that I don’t trust you with sharp objects.”

“Ah, yes, and we all know pencils are far more dangerous than scalpels.” Hawkeye cornered him in, well, a corner. The damn tent was basically made up of corners—sharp, unpleasant, tattered canvas corners. “So, whataya say, will you drop trou in the name of fine art?”

Trapper met Hawkeye’s searching gaze with a steely one. It melted in seconds into lukewarm mush. “Alright, fine. But only if this is for a private collection!” he shouted after Hawkeye, who’d fled towards the door in excitement.

“Of course!” Hawkeye blew a kiss back at him, “Just me, myself and I. Now, let’s see if I can dig up some charcoal in this dump!”

Trapper shook his head and intended to go back to his magazine, figuring there was a fifty-fifty chance this was one of those urges that flew through Hawkeye’s brain like a tumbleweed in the desert. But on his way, he spotted the magazine that had started it all— _Sunbather’s Annual_ —peeking out from beneath a pair of his own dirty socks. He retrieved it, halfway to tossing it down on Hawkeye’s bed for him to find when he returned from his latest wild goose chase, when he paused. He looked at the perky redhead on the cover, chewing his lip pensively.

In the end, he returned to the _Ladies Home Journal,_ tucking those happy little sunbathers safely away between copies of _Field and Stream_ he knew Hawkeye would never be so bored as to explore.

No need to distract Hawkeye from his mission to improve the culture of the place, right? And if the two of them got play artist and muse, well. More’s the better.

**Author's Note:**

> If this silly series of stitched-together-ficlets tickled ya, I’d love to hear about it in a comment! :)


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